


DAVE: be on the roof

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, POV Dave Strider, POV Second Person, Pre-Sburb (Homestuck), Pre-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23582572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I wrote this in an hour! Pleased because I had no motivation to finish what I was previously working on and because this was fairly coherent for four a.m. in the morning!Happy 4/13!
Kudos: 11





	DAVE: be on the roof

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in an hour! Pleased because I had no motivation to finish what I was previously working on and because this was fairly coherent for four a.m. in the morning!
> 
> Happy 4/13!

You’re on the roof and you think.

You think about where you are right now, alone, cold, hungry. Some hundred odd feet above the rest of civilisation. You wonder if your legs, hooked over the top of the small stone wall, are visible from down below.

The stars are your only comfort, shining so confidently above you. You have faint memories of being young and confident, assuring your bro that you would count the stars, boasting, even, full of whatever inane logical thinking a kid just shy of eight has and- no. 

You are in the present, again, not because you are never not in the present (which, yes, you are) but because you are not in the past and you think that if you were in the future or, god forbid, the past, you would still be lying on the floor, so you won’t think about it.

Instead, right now, you think about Bro. It takes actual goddamn effort to think about him in a more coherent and speculative manner than your usual surface level idolistic bullshit, but on nights such as this, when he is gone and you are alone, you manage it. 

You think about how deeply ingrained he is within your person, how he’s in your blood, your genetic code, worming his way around your body through your blood, somehow quieter and stealthier than he could ever be in life. How he’s in the way you look, you talk, you act, you think, you live, you breathe. 

He’s in the circuits of your hands as you sit at your turntables, spinning and mixing and making just like he taught you. As you create your oh-so-shitty-this-shits-ironic comics. You see him in your eyes, on the rare occasions that you actually take your glasses off and look in an honest-to-God mirror, staring into a red that reflects orange. Even in your shades, circular as they are now, as you reach out slowly to put them back on.

And why shouldn’t he be? Why shouldn’t you look up to him, from where he lounges on the pedestal that you've constructed your entire fucking being around. He’s cool, so cool, the absolute coolest. Cooler than an ice box buried in the depths of Antarctica. He’s so cool he could be deposited smack dab in the middle of the core of the fucking Earth and the thing would cool and turn to stone and almost cause the eradication of the entire world almost immediately without touching a stupid blonde hair on his body. It’s just that-and you don’t make a habit of this- this doubt and this- this whatever! It's just that, if you dip below surface level, take a deep breath and sink under the top layer of your own super cool thin fucking ice and just take a moment to observe the water below, you can’t help but feel that your bro isn’t, really, all that cool. 

Definitely not cool enough to plunge the whole Earth into an apocalyptic situation they can’t rectify with approximately three separate mass panics and the leaders of the world bombing each other or whatever before they all collectively attempt to migrate the rich to Mars and become space colonisers, a plan which inevitably fails before it even starts because the more you think about the whole thing the more you realise if the core of Earth just stopped fucking working so would everything else, inevitable death working it’s way through the planet like the most obtuse poison ever, leaving crying babies and confused adults and the one kid still wearing sunglasses who’s fucking guardian ended the world by being too fucking cool dead. 

And you get angry and you get upset and you frown at the sky before reminding yourself that your bros kept you alive all these years which is pretty damn cool to do regardless of what Earth shattering properties that particular coolness possesses but it doesn’t fucking matter anyway because you’re not even sure who you’re angry at anymore. 

And you’re angry again, creating a fucking tower of anger blocks like some toddler with fucking lego but this time it’s because you don’t really want to be thinking about Bro. You think about him a lot, which makes sense ‘cause he’s your idol, your saint, practically your merciful God who spared you from being smote at birth in return for eternal servitude in a fortress up high in some grassy winding mountains with goats- but, again, you don’t want to think about Bro. You don’t think you should, when you’re on the roof at night without him. So you don't.

You remain in the present, thinking, more peacefully now. So far from the civilisation below you, too far, you think, for anyone to look up and see you, your shoes, hanging and swinging gently over the edge.

And you briefly wonder if Bro is back (he never is, never has been), what the time is (03:14:36, 37, 38 a.m.) and if you should go back inside, forgetting all that you’ve thought about. 

You don’t. You remain as you are, save for lifting your hand to push back your sunglasses, allowing yourself to see the stars more clearly. 

You think you’ll be safe for just a little while longer.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this was: "You're on the roof and you're thinking." Which made me think of Dave and it was real early in the morning. K, bye!


End file.
